


Seven Bars

by voleuse



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-18
Updated: 2004-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her tricks are never what she intends them to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Bars

**Author's Note:**

> Set during S6. Title and headings taken from _Bars_, by Keki Daruwalla.

_i. if you want_

She sprawls on a sofa in the Bronze, ankles turned and head in hands. Her gold hair is streaked with black, and her eyes are, most of the time, green. She's sitting by the staircase, barely noticeable, but she could spread her arms and embrace all of Sunnydale.

Elsewhere, she'd be a minor character, a mere trickster, but the pulse of the Hellmouth fills her to the brim. Given the proper tribute, she'd happily make the city her merry-go-round.

That doesn't mean, however, that she will.

During the day past, she chased a kitten into a tree, watched as a little girl cried until her mother called the fire department, then told the feline to jump. Twisted its balance unnaturally as it fell.

Sometimes she likes the bright lights of sirens, the slashing wail of a child's cry.

Other times, however, she looks for more subtle chaos.

Her eyes alight on two males, a man and a vampire, and she smiles.

_ii. a cage, my dear_

The two are bickering, something about a girl, she supposes, although she doesn't pay close attention. She doesn't really have to pay attention.

It's always about a girl in this world, it seems. She thinks it trite, as she watches acrimony spark between them, green and hazel and sharp.

They're playing a game--pool, she thinks it's called--and she admires the grace of the man's hands as they splay across the green felt, the flex of the vampire's body as he arches over the table.

She thinks it's a pity she can't combine the two, then laughs at herself.

Of course she can. It's what she does.

It takes only a second to will the incantation to her mind, to whisper the words and watch them wind around the two males, like pollen and fireflies.

Then she waits.

_iii. you do not have_

Her mischief is indirect, and worn about the edges. It's several minutes before their behavior changes from typical male posturing to something quite different.

Stiffened shoulders loosen, hips swivel, and flinty gazes turn speculative.

She watches the man's tongue as it darts over his lips, endlessly, furtively.

She watches the vampire as he brushes ever closer to the man, eyebrow arched and teeth bared.

The mating dance doesn't change, she thinks, not from bird to mammal to demon.

Everything is provocation.

It eases her tasks tremendously, that sentient beings seek to tear each other to shreds, even when they love one another.

She likes to watch them bleed.

_iv. to travel far_

Their arguments recommence soon enough, but the edge to them is hot as lava, where before it had been icy. She watches the man's heart quicken, and the vampire's blood thin and heat.

This is, she recognizes, desire.

The catalyst is the same: the girl, always a girl, always. Their postures tense, and she imagines them assigning blame to the female for their accelerations.

They simmer, then seethe, drawing close as tides as they bite out insults and invitations.

When the rabble starts to hear them, see them, the two jerk their heads simultaneously, to the door.

They stalk outside as if to hunt, and she follows them, feet drifting solid.

She does not have to travel far.

_v. if you want to feel_

They are barely outside the doorway before they begin their clash anew, and she draws closer to them, murmurs in their ears. Pushes them toward each other, and into the shadows.

Pushes, until they clutch at each other for balance, confused.

She touches them with what serves as her hands, and feels the thrum of their bodies.

They kiss, because she wills it.

She's surprised when they continue, however, as that whirl she had yet to set off.

As they stumble away, hands and mouths desperate against each other, to the vampire's crypt, she shrugs.

If they choose it this night, so much the better.

She follows, gazes upon their pleasure, and thrills for the cool of the morning.

_vi. hemmed in, you'll be hemmed in_

It's late in the morning when the man stirs, then starts, not expecting the vampire's arm slung over his waist.

She giggles, like gravel tumbling, as the man trembles, eyes wide, then slips out of the bed and pulls his clothing on.

He's almost to the door, ruining her fun, when the vampire's eyes open, and he sleepily raises his head. "Xander?"

She's confused for a moment, then remembers. Mortal beings have names.

The vampire sits up, rubs his eyes, a bite-mark on his shoulder. "Off so soon?"

The human, Xander, backs into the doorway, averting his eyes from the vampire--Spike, she recalls, might be his name. "Work. This afternoon," Xander stutters. "I have to. To go."

Spike nods. "All right." He doesn't smile, and she thinks his face unusually stern.

Xander leaves the crypt, and when he exits into the daylight, he runs.

_vii. look for scars_

She's at the Bronze again that evening, her hair in ruddy ringlets, her eyes black and flashing. She lounges at the bar and waits for them to appear. Those she's called once are always drawn to her again.

She's amused when she sees Spike, lurking under the staircase, arms folded and brow creased. He waits as well.

When Xander finally arrives, he seems nervous, almost twitchy. She catalogs his body, wonders how much damage he could inflict upon the vampire before he died.

When Spike confronts him, however, there is no raptor's strike, no blood or talons. Just his hand, running down Xander's arm, as one might soothe a beast.

She is not pleased, but continues to hope.

Spike pulls Xander under the staircase, and she projects herself closer, until she can see their anxious words.

_viii. you'll be full of scars_

"Why'd you run, Harris?"

"Gee, let me think."

They speak to each other like friends, and she frowns. Clacks her teeth.

"You didn't like it?" A low purr.

He carefully checks his shiver. "Maybe it was a spell."

"Yeah," Spike scoffs. "Keep telling yourself that. 'It was a spell! That's why I shagged him!'" His eyes darken, and he presses close, until Xander's head is pressed against metal. "Or maybe it was you."

"It wasn't--" Xander gulps. "We can't--"

"Let me guess why you ran," Spike interrupts. "Was it because I hurt you?" He licks his lips, hooks a finger into one of Xander's belt loops. "Or was it because you liked it?"

She sees that Xander would answer, then, but his denial is muffled by a kiss.

They part so Xander can breathe, and she wills him to protest.

He doesn't.

They kiss again, and again.

She is about to resign herself to a bloodless night, when she feels the twinge of death outside.

She leaves the two to their loveplay, and goes in search of more unpredictable things.


End file.
